


One Day

by CallieB



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2828990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>15th July 2000: Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher meet for the first time. Where will they be on this one day next year? And the year after that? And every year that follows? Two people, one day.</p>
<p>Inspired by but in no way following the story of David Nicholls' rather excellent book - and the less excellent but still watchable film - this is the story of Ian and Mickey's life, on this one day every year. Canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15th July 2000

It’s the sound of voices that first wakes Mickey, of loud booming laughter that he recognises as coming from his father, and the soft creamy tones of his mother’s answering mirth. He lies still in bed, listening to the gentle hum of conversation that is not quite loud enough for him to make out individual words, and eventually he falls back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, it’s morning; sunlight streams in through the gap in his curtains, and he turns away from it. Mickey has never liked mornings. This is a trait he has inherited from his father; Terry is always irritable in the morning, although he can be soothed with the coffee and bacon sandwiches lovingly prepared by his wife. Mickey’s mother never seems to be tired, no matter what time she went to bed the previous night.

She’s awake when Mickey pads out into the kitchen, and she smiles down at him from where she’s washing up glasses at the sink. Mickey thinks his mother is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. She has very long, very dark hair that she wears in a plait that hangs almost to her waist; her eyes are blue, like Mickey’s, and when she smiles, like she is now, her whole face lights up.

“Good morning, _solnyshko_ ,” she says warmly, although she keeps her voice quiet, and Mickey understands that this is because his father is still asleep. She shakes the droplets of water from her hands and puts them on his face. “Did you sleep well?”

Mickey likes his mother’s accent; it has a rich, deep tone to it that seems out of place in their small rag-tag home. He's seen pictures of exotic beaches and people drinking out of coconuts; he thinks his mother looks like she's come from a place like that. She hasn’t, of course; she’s shown him photographs of the place she really came from.

Now, he replies to her with a shrug. “Okay,” he says gruffly. His throat is dry. “Can I have a drink?”

His mother bends forwards, kissing him on the top of his head with his face still clasped in her hands. “Of course, my sunshine.”

She releases him, going over to the fridge to get him some orange juice, and he sits down on a kitchen chair. As he does so, Mandy comes into the kitchen, her tiny dark eyes heavy with sleep; their mother puts the orange juice on the table in front of Mickey and sweeps Mandy up into her arms.

“Good morning, _krykhitka_ ,” she murmurs, and Mickey feels a stab of jealousy. He’s too big now to be held in his mother’s arms.

Mandy kicks to be put down, and their mother places her on the chair next to Mickey. “What are we doing today, mama?” she lisps in her high-pitched little-girl voice. A snuffle comes from the sofa in response to the noise, and their mother flicks a glance towards the living room.

When she speaks, it is in a quieter voice. “We are going to the shop, _krykhitka_ ,” she says. Mickey doesn’t know if it’s because she thinks Mandy won’t understand, or because she doesn’t know the English translations, but all public places are _shop_ to his mother. “We are paying some bills, and we are buying some food.” She smiles. “Then maybe we are going to the park, hmm?”

Mandy grins in response, but before she can say anything, there is a shuffling sound from the living room and their father lurches into the kitchen. He is wearing jeans and socks, but his chest is bare, and Mickey notices that that zipper of his pants is undone.

He doesn’t look at Mickey or Mandy; he only has eyes for their mother. He has a smile on his large round face, a smile that somehow softens his features, makes him gentle in spite of his imposing frame.

“Ah, _kohannja_!” Mickey’s mother has different pet names for all of them. “Good morning, my love.” Mickey doesn’t feel jealous of Mandy any more; when his parents come together, he just feels as though he’s an intruder on something private and special. They gaze at each other with a look that neither of them ever bestow on anyone else.

Terry says heavily: “Irina.” Sometimes Mickey forgets that his mother has a real name; he always calls her _mama_ , like all her children. He has never forgotten Terry’s name though.

Terry kisses his wife; Mandy is too busy drinking Mickey’s orange juice to pay any attention, but Mickey watches in strange fascination. His mother’s eyes are closed as her arms come up to slide around Terry’s neck; she looks happy, although it seems like a strange thing to do to another person in Mickey’s opinion.

Eventually, Terry releases her, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down. “There bacon?” he asks.

“Of course,” Irina says. She goes back to the fridge to get it, and soon the sizzle of cooking meat fills the kitchen.

“Where’s Jamie?” Terry asks. Jamie is Mickey’s eldest brother; at twelve, he is the only one of them allowed to go on jobs with their father at the weekend.

“Still sleeping,” Irina tells him. She looks affectionately at Mandy and Mickey. “Not like these early chicks.”

“Got business at the Alibi,” Terry says indistinctly around a mouthful of the bacon that Mickey’s mother has put in front of him.

“You are taking Jamie?” Irina asks. Terry shrugs.

“Kid’s got to learn the business.”

Mickey’s mother has an uncharacteristic crease in between her eyebrows. “He will be safe?”

Terry shrugs in an irritated kind of way. Mickey instinctively shrinks back a little; Terry either ignores or doesn’t see this. “He’ll be fucking fine.”

Irina’s face instantly clears. “Okay,” she says brightly. “It is good for him to be with you. Perhaps we will see you at the shop later.”

“Yeah, sure,” Terry mumbles, but Mickey doesn’t think he’s listening. It doesn’t seem to matter to Irina; she’s beaming as brightly as the sunshine she’s always telling Mickey he is.

***

Ian reaches out a hand from the shadow of the shop’s awning into the sunlight. He likes the way it makes his pale skin light up, the way it makes him feel warm. He flexes his little fingers, examining the freckles dotting his arms.

“Ian’s getting sunburn,” Flip observes. He’s standing safely in the doorway of the shop, his hair sticking up in odd places. Upon hearing him, Fiona – hands on hips like a nine-year-old guard dog – comes instantly over to Ian.

“Come away from the sun,” she says authoritatively, and Ian does.

“Where’s Frank?” Flip asks. Ian doesn’t say anything. Even at four, he knows not to ask about his father’s whereabouts.

“He’ll come back. He’s on a bender,” Fiona says. Ian doesn’t know what that means – he’s not sure that Fiona really knows what it means – but he doesn’t ask. Frank will come back. He always does.

A peal of laughter comes from the interior of the shop, and their mother appears, a loaf of bread under one arm. She looks pretty, Ian thinks; she’s wearing denim shorts and an orange tank top, her hair pulled up in an untidy knot with long blonde tendrils escaping around her face.

“Here you are, babies!” she exclaims, holding out the bread like a prize. “Now we can feed the ducks!”

Fiona looks unimpressed. “Did you put sun cream on Ian?” she asks.

“Oh, Fiona, stop being so serious!” Monica says, laughing her easy laugh. “Ian’s fine, aren’t you, baby?”

This is directed at Ian, and so he nods, because this is what is expected of him. Fiona doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t say anything, taking the bread.

“Come on, Flip,” Monica says, holding out a hand, and Flip takes it, although he looks back over his shoulder at Ian, making sure he’s following. It is left to Fiona to offer Ian her free hand, and the four of them make their way down the hot street towards the park.

It should be green, but it looks more yellow; the sun has dried out all the plants, and all the people look hot and exhausted. Ian holds tight to Fiona’s hand as they make their way over to the little pond where ostensibly there should be ducks.

They aren’t the only ones with that idea; Ian can see a woman with a long black braid standing a few feet away, surrounded by children. There are three boys – two of them blonde, one dark-haired – and a girl, also dark-haired. By the way Monica squeals at the sight of them, she knows who they are.

“Irina!” Monica shrieks, and the woman looks over at them. She has a smile on her face, but it’s a different kind of smile than Monica’s. Monica’s smile always makes Ian feel slightly uneasy; the dark-haired woman’s smile feels warm and kind.

“Good morning, Monica,” the woman says politely, coming over to them with her children in tow. She has a lilting, accented voice.

“It’s so hot today, isn’t it?” Ian’s mother says buoyantly. Irina answers, but Ian isn’t listening any more, bored by the adult conversation. He looks at her children instead. The girl looks like the youngest; she holds her mother’s hand, and stares defiantly back at Ian when he catches her eye. It makes him smile.

“Mama,” she says, tugging on her mother’s hand. “Mama!”

“Just a minute, _krykhitka_ ,” Irina says, still talking to Monica. Ian wonders what that word means.

The little girl, unperturbed, turns to the dark-haired boy beside her. He has his small hands shoved into his pockets, his hair scruffy and his eyes piercingly blue. Ian thinks that he likes how blue his eyes are.

“Mickey,” the girl says. “Mickey, that boy has red hair.”

The boy looks at her with the supreme scorn of the older brother. “Some people have red hair,” he tells her. Ian laughs, and the boy looks at him. It makes him want to stop laughing, so he does.

“Come, Jovan, Igor, we have to go now,” Irina says. “Mykhailo, Miranda, say goodbye now.”

“Goodbye,” the little girl says, wiggling her fingers at Ian. He smiles, but doesn’t reply. The dark-haired boy looks as though he might say something, but in the end he doesn’t.

“Who’s that?” Ian asks Fiona once the woman and her children have gone.

“They’re Milkoviches,” she says. Monica giggles.

“Why are you laughing?” Flip demands.

She laughs again. “Oh, I used to know Ronnie Milkovich,” she says easily.

“Don’t tell him that,” Fiona says in the same voice she uses when Ian wets the bed. “He doesn’t get it. He’s too young.”

Monica ruffles Fiona’s hair. “Lighten up, baby,” she says.

Fiona’s cross – Ian can tell by the way she hurls the bread into the pond, and how later she stamps her feet on the way home – but Ian just feels like thinking about the _Milkoviches_. He thinks it sounds like a funny kind of name. He thinks about the little girl and her brother.

 _Some people have red hair_. He likes the way the dark-haired boy said it. He wonders what else the dark-haired boy might have said if he hadn’t had to go.

Ian decides that he likes the Milkoviches, funny name and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully admit that google translate is the sum total of my knowledge of Ukrainian, but according to a some actual Ukrainian people I asked, _solnyshko_ is a diminutive form of 'sunshine', used as a pet name, and _krykhitka_ means 'little one'. _Kohannja_ is a slang word roughly equivalent to saying 'lovey' in English. I am aware that I could easily be mistaken and have almost certainly made spelling mistakes, so hands up for that one in advance!


	2. 15th July 2001

It’s one of the very rare times that all the Gallaghers are together, and Ian is enjoying the moment as he splashes around in the pool in their back garden. He’s been swimming in it every year since he was a baby, so he doesn’t need arm bands any more, but Fiona is still treading water nearby just in case. Monica is in the water as well, but Ian knows that Fiona doesn’t trust her to save him if he drowns.

Frank stands outside the pool with his elbows leaning on the edge, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Flip always complains about the smell when Frank and Monica smoke, but Ian quite likes it. It makes him feel safe.

“Are you having fun, baby?” Monica coos to him, pulling him into her arms. He’s not sure he likes the feeling of being cuddled – he’s not a baby any more – but he goes with it.

“Yes,” he tells her truthfully. He looks over her shoulder; Flip is watching him. He always gets jealous when Monica pays attention to Ian.

Monica doesn’t seem to notice this. “Feel, baby,” she says, taking Ian’s little hand and putting it onto her swollen stomach. Ian touches the taut skin, jumping as something thuds into his hand. Monica laughs. “The water makes the baby kick,” she says merrily.

“My sister,” Ian says. It seems strange that there’s a baby in there. He won’t be the youngest any more. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“That’s right,” Monica tells him. “Little Debbie.”

Ian tries the name out on his tongue. “Debbie,” he says.

“Hey now,” Frank says, ambling over to stand next to their spot. “I thought we agreed on Stella!”

“Frank,” Monica says with unusual seriousness. “I’m not naming my baby after a can of beer.”

Frank cackles, reaching around Monica’s neck to drag her in for a kiss. The end of the cigarette drifts towards her hair; Ian, still balancing precariously on his mother’s hip, watches with interest as the little fiery circle catches on a few flyaway tresses.

“Mom!” Fiona yells. “Your hair!”

Monica pulls away from Frank and notices the cigarette. She laughs. “You nearly set me on fire,” she giggles to Frank, turning to face him properly. As they start kissing again, making a noise like the one the toilet makes when it’s clogged up, Ian is unceremoniously dropped, and he has to kick frantically to keep himself afloat.

“It’s okay, Ian,” Fiona says, swimming over to him to hold him up. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m not drowning,” Ian says, but then the water splashes into his mouth and he finds himself unable to keep himself afloat. He coughs, falling onto Fiona, and she grasps the edge of the pool in the effort to hold him up. He’s too heavy for her, and for a second his head ducks underwater before she can heave him out again.

“Help me!” Fiona shouts at Frank and Monica’s entwined figures. They ignore her; Frank’s hand is squeezing Monica’s left breast as though it’s a tomato he’s trying to turn into ketchup.

Suddenly, Ian feels a hand on his arm, lifting him slightly so that he’s not choking on the water any more. His fingers find the edge of the pool, and Fiona, obviously having regained her balance, arranges him properly on her hip. He looks around to see who his saviour is; standing beside the pool is a girl he’s never seen before. She’s tall, maybe a couple of years older than Fiona, with dark braided hair bound up on top of her head and bright pink varnish on her fingernails.

“Hey there, gingerbread,” she says. Ian likes the way her face looks when she smiles.

“Thanks for that,” Fiona says. The girl shrugs.

“I only did it so you’d let me swim in your pool,” she says bracingly, and for a second Fiona just stares at her; then the girl lets out an unexpected cackle of laughter. “I’m kidding! You should see your face.”

An unwilling smile starts to form on Fiona’s lips. “You can come in if you want,” she says.

“Great,” the girl says, stripping off her purple dress so quickly that Ian’s sure she must have practised it. She’s wearing a pink bikini underneath. “What’s your name, girl?” she asks as she clambers into the pool. “I live a street over, but I’ve never seen you before.”

“We’ve been here forever,” Fiona says. “I’m Fiona, and this is Ian. That’s Flip,” she adds, pointing. Flip, wanting to know what all the fuss is about, starts to paddle over.

“Flip?” the girl says questioningly.

“Philip,” Fiona explains. “Ian couldn’t say it properly when he was little.”

“That’s ‘cause Ian is immature,” Flip says. Ian frowns; Flip’s still jealous about Monica holding him, and now he’s trying to show off his words in front of the new girl.

Said girl raises an eyebrow. “I’d say you were more of a Lip than a Flip with that mouth,” she says. “I’m Veronica.”

“Vonica,” Ian repeats, and she laughs. He says: “Like Monica?”

Fiona frowns. “Monica’s our mom,” she says, gesturing towards Monica and Frank in an irritated kind of way.

“I figured,” the girl says. “Well, how about you just call me Vee, gingerbread? Most people do.”

“Vee,” Ian says carefully, so he won’t forget. He turns to Flip. “Why did she call me gingerbread?”

Flip rolls his eyes. “Because you have red hair, stupid!”

“Oh,” Ian says, reaching up to touch his hair. Sometimes he forgets that it’s red; he doesn’t look in a mirror very often. He wonders, as he’s wondered before, why he has red hair when Fiona and Flip don’t.

 _Because_ , he remembers fondly, _some people have red hair_.

*

“Stupid fucking projects,” Jamie complains. He’s sitting next to Mickey at the kitchen table, staring glassy-eyed at the large piece of sugar paper in front of him that’s supposed to have a completed family tree on it and is instead a mass of multi-coloured games of hangman.

Mickey, who is meant to be doing his own homework, looks up at his brother, eager for a distraction. He finds it in the array of felt tip pens spread out on the table; he has to bite his lip to stop himself from putting all the lids back on them. He knows that the pens will dry out, but Jamie will be cross if he interferes.

“How can I help you, _bratyk_?” Irina puts down the dishes she’s washing, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and comes over to the table. Jamie throws down the pen he’s holding in irritation.

“Supposed to have pictures,” he says, in the low grumbly voice he uses when he’s really upset about something but he doesn’t want anyone to know. Irina, who always knows when Jamie is upset, puts her arms around him. He flinches like he doesn’t like it, but Mickey knows better.

“What pictures do you need?” she says in a crooning voice. “What is this project?”

“Family tree,” Jamie mutters. “Everyone else has photos, and shit.” He shrugs Irina away; she steps back, smiling. He says again with bravado: “Stupid fucking project!”

Irina laughs; Mickey thinks it’s a pretty laugh. “You are needing pictures of the family? We have pictures, _bratyk_.”

Jamie looks up at her. “We do?”

“Of course,” she says. “Come, we will look at them. Mykhailo? Do you need help with your homework?”

Mickey looks at his mother, and then back down at his homework. A battered red exercise book lies open in front of him, with the topic title written in his childish scribble: _Describe your favourite place._ Underneath he’s managed to come up with a few uninspiring lines about the baseball pitch where he does Little League; he decides that it’ll do.

“I’ve finished,” he says. Irina ruffles his hair.

“Come and look at the pictures,” she says. Mickey slides off his chair, following her around the table and into the living room; Mandy and Joey, who are also sat around the table, follow suit. Irina halts in front of the bookcase in the corner, rifling through the loose papers and handguns that occupy most of the shelves. After a minute or two she pulls out a thick leather album, bringing it to the couch and settling herself down with the book on her knees. Jamie pushes past Mickey, sitting firmly on their mother’s left. “It’s my project, so I get to sit here,” he says. Mickey doesn’t answer; he just moves around to Irina’s right, sitting next to Mandy who gets to be next to their mother because she’s the baby. Joey settles for the worst seat beside Jamie with a sigh, but he doesn’t bother to argue.

Irina opens the album; the first picture fills the whole page, and her children huddle in close to see it. It’s a picture of her and Terry on their wedding day; she has a blinding smile on her face, and Terry’s large hand is resting on her bulging stomach. At their feet stands a tiny child with a shock of white-blonde hair; Irina points at him.

“That’s you, _bratyk_ ,” she says to Jamie. “You were there at my wedding. And that—” here she points at her belly “—is you, _rybka_.” This is addressed to Joey, who peers interestedly at the photograph.

“I was in your tummy when you got married?” he asks.

Irina nods. “I was sixteen,” she says. “I had a very happy day.”

“How old was Terry?” Jamie asks, pointing to his father’s face, which bears an uncharacteristic smile.

“Hmm,” their mother replies. “I think he was twenty-seven, or maybe he was twenty-eight.” She laughs. “I can’t remember!”

Mandy, who doesn’t like it when too much time goes by without anyone paying attention to her, tugs on Irina’s sleeve. “Why am I not there?” she demands.

Irina laughs again. “You were not born, _krykhitka_ ,” she says fondly. “That day was almost ten years ago, and you are not yet ten.”

Mandy frowns, trying to work this out; Jamie, already bored, flips the page over. “I need pictures of everyone,” he says. “I need pictures where everyone is born.”

Irina helps him to turn the stiff pages of the album, past photographs of their father with his brothers, of their mother and her sister, of babies growing into children, and pages and pages of pictures of Irina and Terry together. Sometimes they’re embracing, or holding hands, or kissing, but they are touching each other in every photograph they have together. Occasionally Irina pauses to comment on a picture; she shows them the photos taken after each of them was born. Mickey thinks he was an ugly baby, with his face all screwed up and his skin paler than the whitewashed walls of the hospital room his mother is in, but he doesn’t say this. He knows his mother will tell him he’s beautiful, and then Jamie will laugh at him.

Eventually Jamie has collected enough photographs to satisfy himself that the project will be a success, and gradually the Milkoviches drift back to the kitchen. All except Mickey. He stays on the couch, flipping through the album until he gets back to the very first picture, and he stares at it, trying to glue it into his brain somehow. He likes the way his parents are looking at each other.

Irina has gone back into the kitchen, but when she realises Mickey is still looking at the photographs she comes back over to him. “What are you looking at, _solnyshko_?” she asks.

Mickey points to the picture. “This,” he says succinctly.

His mother sits back down beside him, her hand coming up automatically to stroke his hair. “It is a good day, when you get married,” she says. She smiles. “You will know one day!”

Mickey stares at her blankly. “I’m not getting married,” he says.

“One day, you will,” Irina predicts. “You will find someone who makes you very happy, and you will want to spend your life with them. You will have to protect them, my little strong boy!”

Mickey thinks about this. “Can I marry Mandy?” he asks hopefully. She’s the only person he can think of that he wants to protect.

His mother laughs warmly. “No, _solnyshko_ ,” she says. “You are not allowed to marry your sister. You must find a different girl you love.”

Mickey feels his face twisting. He knows what it means to love someone, but he can’t imagine wanting to get married. He looks down at the photograph again, trying to picture himself standing where his father is; he puts Angela Zago, a girl in his class, in his mother’s place beside him. It seems strange in his head.

Irina is looking at him with an odd expression on her face. When she speaks, her voice is so quiet that it’s almost a whisper. “You don’t like this idea, of marrying a girl?”

Mickey shrugs. He can feel his face getting warm, though he’s not sure why.

His mother looks around, her eyes flicking from side to side almost furtively. Her voice is even lower as she says: “You can love anyone you want, Mykhailo.”

Mickey frowns, looking up at her; he’s not quite sure what she means, but he doesn’t ask. A few minutes later, the front door opens, and the moment is lost as Terry and Iggy come in. But later, as Mickey eats his supper, he reflects that he didn’t tell the truth in his homework project. He’d never in a million years admit it, but his favourite place isn’t the baseball pitch. It’s his spot on that couch, with his mother’s arm around him and her hand stroking his hair as she tells him that he’s allowed to love anyone he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have tumblr now! I keep forgetting to say that. Come find me at http://13callieb.tumblr.com/
> 
> Comments and concric keep me smiling :D And please forgive me for Lip's baby nickname, I just have this weirdly fluffy headcanon about it so had to include it!
> 
> Also according to my incredibly credible colleagues on Google, _bratyk_ means 'my son' and _rybka_ is an affectionate term meaning 'little fish'. Again, if anyone has any actual knowledge of Ukrainian please tell me and I will correct myself! I just liked the idea of each of the Milkoviches having their own special nickname from their mom. I actually have headcanon backstories for why she chose each name, but I don't know if they'll have a chance to be told!


	3. 15th July 2002

"Poor little one, he is too sad to eat," Valentyna says in a half-whisper that Mickey isn't supposed to hear, whisking his untouched plate of scrambled eggs away from him. "Poor little baby," she croons again, the thick black hairs on her upper lip trembling slightly. "Poor motherless soul."

Mickey doesn't say anything. He isn't too sad to eat. Valentyna's eggs just aren't very nice.

He sits at the kitchen table, surrounded by crowds of people that make him slightly uneasy. He's not sure if he's met most of them before, but Jamie says they're family. Terry always tells them there's nothing more important than family.

Valentyna has retreated to stand by the sink with a couple of other women. She's the ugliest for sure; she's tall and stocky, with a square face and thick hair like a man. She's Terry's older sister. Mickey knows that one of the other women is married to Terry's brother, but he's not sure what her name is; the third he doesn't recognise at all. They're all large and loud and insist that he calls them _titka_ , which doesn't make it easy to remember their names.

"How's Dmitry doing?" one of them asks Valentyna. It's the red-headed woman, the one he doesn't know.

"Oh, it's sad," Valentyna says with relish. "Poor Dmitry, you know he was so devoted to Irina." She gives the red-headed woman a little push. "Now, Kari, we must give him a little time!"

All three women laugh. The third one, a shorter woman with dirty blonde hair scraped back from her worn-out face, says: "Do you still fancy your chances with him, Karina?"

The red-haired woman shoots a glance at Mickey, and says in a slightly quieter voice, "Oh, you know me and Dmitry. We always find each other again!"

"Dmitry finds many women," Valentyna says. "He's never loved anyone like Irina."

Mickey decides that he's heard enough. He pushes back his chair, forcefully enough for it to scrape loudly against the floor, and weaves between the people in the kitchen until he gets to his bedroom door. Everyone is talking, and their voices are like the buzzing of bees in Mickey's head: loud, irritating, and slightly frightening.

"Mickey?" It's Mandy, her little hands clasped together as she stands in the doorway to his bedroom. "Mickey, when are they going to go away?"

He shrugs. "Don't know." His voice feels raspy, like it's difficult to get words out.

"When's mama coming back?" Mandy asks plaintively.

"Shut up," he says roughly. "You know she's dead. Shut up."

"I don't believe you," Mandy says.

"I don't care." He pushes past her into his room, shoving her out of the way so that he can close the door. She starts crying, her tears splashing over her cheeks on onto the front of her dress; he closes the door anyway, and puts his hands over his ears so he doesn't have to listen to the sound of it. When he takes his hands away again, he can't hear her crying any more.

Terry wasn't the one to tell him that Irina was dead. Jamie had that honour. Mickey doesn't really understand what happened; he had been in the living room with his brothers and Mandy, and then there had been that loud insistent banging on the front door, and Irina had hustled them all out and into their bedrooms, and he had heard noises and shouting and then Jamie told him that she was dead. That's what he tells the people who ask him.

There's more than that, but Mickey doesn't want to remember it. He doesn't want to think about what he saw when he looked out of his bedroom door.

Instead he goes over to his bed, reaching underneath it. Here he has the last gift his mother ever gave him; no one else even knows he has it.

It was just a few weeks ago, when she was alive and happy and still calling him her sunshine. He went into the room she shared with Terry - he can't remember why now; perhaps he was looking for something, or perhaps he just wanted to see her face smiling at him - and he saw her combing her long dark hair. The comb was ordinary, just plain white plastic, but the box she took it from was something special. It wasn't very big, just large enough to hold comfortably in two hands; it was made out of shiny dark wood, with intricate pictures of musical instruments carved into the sides. Mickey sidled closer to get a better look at it. The inside was lined with dark blue velvet, and it had some rings and bracelets and things in it. But the most interesting thing about the box was that it sang a song to Irina as she brushed her hair.

"What's that?" he had asked, pointing at the box. His mother had smiled her usual graceful serene smile and gestured for him to come closer.

"It is my music box, _solnyshko_ ," she said. "My mama gave it to me when I was young. I use it to keep my jewels in."

"Why does it sing?" he asked, frowning. He had never heard of a box that sang before.

She responded by carefully lifting her jewellery out, turning the box over in her hands. "Here, you see, my sunshine, there is a turner," she told him, indicating a large gold handle at the back of the box. She twisted it gently; it made a strange clicking noise, and the music sped up. "You turn the turner, and the music comes faster," she explained. "It stops when you close the box."

Mickey reached out a tentative hand to turn the turner; his mother smiled at him as he twisted it around. "Wow," he breathed. The singing was beautiful, like his mother's face; he could almost imagine it was her making the music.

"You like it, _solnyshko_?" Irina asked him. "Would you like to have it?"

He looked up at her. "Really?"

She laughed. "Yes, my sunshine! Everyone should have pretty things. My mama gave me this when I was about your age. Now it is my turn to give it to you."

Mickey considered this. "Why me?" he asked eventually. "Mandy's the girl."

She placed a hand on his cheek, stroking his face. "My mama could have given this box to my sister. Natalya is older than me; she was cross that she did not get it! But my mama said that this box must belong to the child who will love it the most." She stroked his head, her fingers running lightly through his hair. "I think that you will love it the most."

Mickey took the box from her. "Thank you," he said hesitantly.

She smiled. "Don't forget the key!" She picked up a tiny gold key from the edge of her dressing table; it had a piece of navy ribbon attached to it. "You may lock your secrets in this box, _solnyshko_. Collect your treasures."

He took the key from between her fingers. There was a little keyhole at the front of the box, so small that you might miss it if you weren't looking for it; he inserted the key, listening to the click as he turned it. He unlocked it again, shutting the lid of the box; the music stopped abruptly. He locked the box again.

"Take it to your room now, my sunshine," Irina told him. "Keep it somewhere safe."

He had kept it somewhere safe, under his bed with the key inside his pillowcase, and now he pulls it out once more to look at it. He knows instinctively that Terry - so strange to hear all his relations call him Dmitri! - must not know he has it; he might take it away. He will certainly be angry that Mickey owns a possession more traditionally found in the bedrooms of little girls. So no one knows that Mickey has the box.

He fumbles in his pillowcase for the key and inserts it in the lock, twisting until he hears the faint click that means he's unlocked it. Lifting up the lid, he looks inside at the only treasure he's managed to collect so far: the photograph of Irina and Terry on their wedding day, her happy face smiling out of the picture, her hand resting on her bulging stomach and the tiny shock-haired baby Jamie nestled at her feet.

He took it the day after she died. No one has noticed yet.

*

"Damn, girl, I'm having that boy." Vee is sitting on one of the swings in the playground, her hair up in a high bun and her feet stuffed into a pair of yellow high heels.

Fiona sits on the swing next to her, her long skinny legs dangling to the floor and the baby strapped to her chest in a blue scarf. "Which one?" she asks.

Ian looks up from his place in the sandpit as Vee points; she's looking at a group of older teenagers standing under a small collection of trees, wearing sleeveless shirts and bandannas and smoking suspicious-smelling cigarettes. Her long finger indicates the tallest of the group; he has shoulder-length brown hair and a hint of stubble around his chin. His arms are large and muscular, and Ian feels a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He realises that he likes the way this boy looks.

"Isn't he too old for you?" Fiona is asking. Her hand automatically pats the baby on the back; Ian's new sister cries unless she's carried and stroked all the time. He's not sure how he feels about her; she has tufts of ginger on her little head, which means he's not the only red-headed Gallagher any more. _Some people have red hair_.

"Eddie Murphy doesn't think he's too old for me, and he's nearly twenty," Vee says. When Fiona frowns at her, she adds: "Not the actor Eddie Murphy, my boyfriend Eddie Murphy."

"I didn't know he was twenty," Fiona says. "Anyway, why do you need that boy if you already have a boyfriend?"

"I'm thinking of dumping Eddie Murphy," Vee says casually. "Damn, look at that boy!"

"Why are you dumping Eddie Murphy?" Lip pipes up. No one has called him Flip ever since Vee gave him his new name. He's supposed to be playing with Ian, but he's wandered over to the swings to listen to the girls' conversation.

"None of your business, white boy," Vee says affectionately. She raises her eyebrows until Lip backs away again.

"But why are you?" Fiona asks. Vee shrugs.

"He's so boring," she says. "All he ever talks about is baseball and how fine my tits are." A small smile appears on her face as she looks over at the boy under the trees again. "He would listen to me."

"Wait, you know him?" Fiona says.

Vee shrugs again. "Sure, a little," she says. Then she sighs. "Okay, so he was sitting in front of me on the El the other day. But he let me go in front of him through the doors, and you know only a gentleman does that." She sighs again. "And he said I was looking good. He called me baby."

"Huh," Fiona says, in a way that Ian knows means she's not quite following what Vee is saying but doesn't want to admit it.

"Imma go and say hello," Vee says, adjusting the bra that Ian isn't sure she really needs to be wearing. "You coming?"

Fiona shrugs. "Sure," she says. She turns to Ian and Lip. "Stay here." She gets up, swinging the swing behind her, and follows Vee over towards the trees, her arms cradled protectively around Debbie.

As soon as her back is turned, Lip looks up at Ian. "We're going too, right?" he says, getting up.

Ian thinks about this. "Fiona said to stay here," he says uncertainly.

Lip makes a derisive noise. "You always going to listen to what Fiona says?"

"No," Ian says stubbornly, his lower lip popping out. He scrambles to his feet, and he and Lip walk across the playground over to where Vee and Fiona are standing with the group of boys.

Vee is sticking her chest out; she's laughing at something one of the boys is saying. It's the boy with the long hair; he smiles at her, flashing white teeth, and Ian thinks that he has a nice smile. The strange feeling is back in his stomach.

"What did you say your name was?" the boy says. Vee tips her head back and laughs as though he's said something funny.

"Veronica," she says, and her voice sounds like it's dancing. "My friends call me Vee."

"Do I get to be one of your friends, Vee?" he asks teasingly.

She grins at him. "Sure," she says. "What's _your_ name?"

"Kevin," he tells her.

"Kevin," she repeats. "That's one hell of a name. Imma call you Kev."

He laughs. "Okay," he says. He frowns suddenly, as though a thought is just occurring to him. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen," she says. A chorus of groans comes from the group; Kev screws up his face.

"Thirteen?" he says. "Christ, I always strike out."

"Hey, it doesn't bother me," Vee says flirtatiously. He waves a hand at her.

"Yeah, yeah, sweetheart, call me in a couple of years. Come on, guys."

"Hey!" Vee calls indignantly after him as he begins to walk away; he's stopped, however, when he nearly trips over Ian.

"Hey, who's this little guy?" he asks, squatting down in front of him. Ian likes the friendly sound of his voice; Lip gives him an annoyed sideways glance, obviously irritated not to be noticed.

"I thought I told you guys to stay at the sandpit!" Fiona hisses, hurrying over; Kev smiles at her.

"It's cool, it's cool," he says. "What's your name, buddy?" He looks at Fiona. "I love kids," he says by way of explanation.

"Ian," Ian says. He looks up at Kev, catching sight of a gold hoop in his left ear. It glints in the sunlight, and Ian feels that strange wobbliness in his tummy again.

Kev sees him looking. "Here, you want it?" he asks, reaching up to take the earring out. "It's yours, buddy." He stands up again, ruffling Ian's hair. "Stay cool," he says, and then he and his friends are gone, much to Vee's obvious chagrin.

"Thirteen is not too fucking young," she grumbles. "I'm having that boy, I don't care what he says."

Fiona answers her; Lip listens in. Ian doesn't care. He looks down at the little gold hoop clenched in his fist and smiles.

It's like a little piece of treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the Ukrainian I've so painstakingly Google-translated: 'titka' is a word meaning aunt or auntie.
> 
> Notes on my appallingly long absence: What can I say, guys? I fell in love! I found the Ian to my Mickey! (It's awesome, but it seems to take up quite a lot of time.)
> 
> As always, comments make my day! Thank you all for your extreme patience with me xx


	4. 15th July 2003

They are walking home from school, Fiona and Vee ahead with their arms linked, and Lip and Ian behind. The boys are playing a game where if you step on the cracks in the sidewalk then you lose; this is difficult, both because the sidewalk is full of cracks, and because Lip is a notorious cheater. Ian has seen him step on at least three cracks already.

“Did not,” he says, when Ian challenges him. There’s no point in arguing, so Ian just carries on playing, placing his feet carefully in the middle of the gum-spotted squares, his eyes firmly on the ground.

Fiona and Vee are talking about boys. Lip always complains when they do this; he says that Fiona has enough boys at home without having to worry about the ones that aren’t even family. Ian doesn’t mind, though. He finds it interesting, although he doesn’t really know why.

Their main topic of conversation today is Fiona’s boyfriend. He’s the first one she’s ever had, although she is quick to explain to Vee that she has been both kissed and fingered before. Vee nods as if this is obvious; maybe she just already knows.

“But his name is _Troutman_ ,” she says. When Fiona doesn’t reply immediately, she repeats: “ _Troutman_.”

“ _Ben_ Troutman,” Fiona says obstinately. “He’s nice. And he has cute hair.”

“Why don’t I know this kid? Is he in school?” Vee asks.

“Home-schooled,” Fiona replies. She adds slyly: “I think his big brother hangs out with Kev sometimes.”

Vee gives a deep sigh. Her relationship with Kev – or lack thereof – reminds Ian a little of some of the old soaps that Monica likes watching on TV; she’s always either talking about him, trying to talk to him, or sitting by the window sighing over him, usually smoking. He, on the other hand, has resolutely turned down all her advances. This, Ian gathers, is not a good thing.

He pushes a hand into his pocket, feeling the tiny gold hoop earring against his fingertips. It’s a little treasure, something that makes him feel special and grown-up, and it’s because of that that he’s kept it all this time. No one has ever noticed him first before. It’s usually always Lip, or Fiona. No one has ever given him a present that’s all his own before, either. It’s a nice feeling.

“You stepped! I saw you!” Lip shrieks suddenly. Ian looks down at his foot. In the midst of listening to Fiona and Vee, he has stopped paying attention; his sandal is inescapably placed over a thick angry crack in the sidewalk.

“You lose,” Lip tells him importantly. Ian can’t help it; he feels tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. He always loses.

“Never mind, gingerbread,” Vee calls back sympathetically, although he can tell she isn’t really paying attention.

“You stepped, you lose,” Lip sing-songs triumphantly. “I win!”

“Shut up,” Fiona says suddenly. Her voice is urgent, and a little frightened. Ian clutches instinctively at the hoop in his pocket, looking towards his sister.

They are in a part of the neighbourhood that already scares Ian a bit, mainly because Fiona has extracted firm promises from him and Lip that they will never go there alone. She wouldn’t tell them why, except to say that some dangerous people live here; they have to pass through on the way home from school though.

Fiona has stopped in her tracks, looking over towards a tall, rickety-looking house off to their right. It has a small porch, on which a large, grey-haired man with a slightly bulging midriff is standing, his enormous hands clenched into fists.

“Shit,” Vee murmurs. As if in response to her words, the man opens his round red mouth and starts yelling.

“Get back out here, you fucking queer! What are you, some kind of pussy? Don’t make me fucking come in after you!” His voice is heavy and rough, sending a frisson of fear down Ian’s spine.

Slowly, hesitantly, the front door of the house opens, and a boy comes out. He is tall – taller than Ian – with dark hair and a baggy white shirt on over a pair of green shorts. All his clothes – and his skin, which is ghostly white – are very dirty. His feet are bare, and Ian can see a funny purple mark just at the base of his neck, like a bruise.

The boy shoves his skinny hands deep into his pockets. “Dad,” he mumbles, and Ian suddenly recognises him.

_Some people have red hair_.

*

The thumping of his heart, the shallow breaths tearing through him – they are all signs of a fear that by now is all too familiar. Mickey does what he always does. He shoves the fear away, pretends it isn’t there, and squares his shoulders against the onslaught. Terry is drunk – he’s always drunk – and he’s angry. But Mickey can pretend that that isn’t there too.

“Dad,” he says, doing his best impression of not caring.

Terry stares down at him, disgust written all over his broad face. “You pathetic club-footed piss-poor excuse for a man,” he says. He isn’t shouting any more. Mickey doesn’t know if he should feel relieved by that or not, so he decides not to feel anything. He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Are you fucking aware,” his father goes on, stopping to take a deep breath, “that you just smashed the window of _my fucking car_?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He _is_ aware that he smashed the window of Terry’s fucking car; he and Joey were practising for Little League when the ball had slipped out of his fingers and gone into the window. But he knows Terry probably won’t appreciate him being honest right now.

His father doesn’t seem to appreciate his silence either. He plants his hands on his hips and pushes his face in close to Mickey’s; Mickey can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Well? What the _fuck_ have you got to say for yourself, you little shit?”

“Sorry,” Mickey says, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “Sorry, dad.”

Terry’s fist comes out of nowhere, hitting Mickey’s chin with a dull thud; Mickey is catapulted backwards, landing painfully on the stairs. His face throbbing, he pulls himself upright, forcing himself to stand on trembling legs. There’s a sharp pain in his back; he thinks he might have hit his spine on the edge of the steps.

Terry surveys him, as if deciding whether or not to hit him again. At last, he growls: “Just fucking learn from this, alright? Get the fuck out of here.”

Mickey doesn’t hesitate, turning and dashing down the steps and across the street. Straight into a tall skinny black girl who almost falls over.

“Get out of my way!” he spits.

“Jeez, okay!” the girl says, holding up her hands. Mickey’s eyes dart between her and her companions. There’s a red-haired boy he thinks he recognises, but he’s too anxious to think about it properly. They’re blocking his way. They need to move.

The red-head takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s holding something in one of them, something that glints in the late afternoon sun, but Mickey isn’t interested in what it is. He just needs a way out.

“Hello,” the boy says shyly, stepping forwards slightly.

Mickey sees his chance. He runs past the red-haired boy, pushing him out of the way so that he almost falls, and darts underneath the railway bridge and away. He thinks the boy is watching him go, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get away.

He goes to his favourite place: the baseball pitch. No one is there today; practice is on Thursdays. He knows, because he’s hoping to try out next year; that’s the only reason he and Joey were even playing. The only reason any of this happened.

It’s hot, and Mickey’s shirt is sticking to his sweaty skin. He slows to a walk, going to sit in the empty dug-out where there’s some shade. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest like it’s trying to explode. When he’s sitting on the floor, he wraps his arms around his knees and forces himself to breathe deeply.

It’s his own fault anyway. Jamie says that all you have to do with dad is agree with him and do what he says. It’s pretty easy. All the others seem to manage it. It’s only Mickey that always causes problems. He tries, he really does, but he always seems to end up getting in trouble. Sometimes it’s because he asks too many questions, or because he’s too clumsy. Sometimes he gets this funny frightening block in his head where he doesn’t want to do what _anyone_ tells him, not even Terry, and he can’t make it go away in time.

There’s something very bad inside him. He knows that. Terry has told him, lots of times, and even without that he would know it. He gets strange feelings, sometimes, that he doesn’t know how to explain. Like sometimes he feels like he wants to scream in his father’s face, which would be the stupidest thing ever. And sometimes he wants to answer questions in science lessons at school, but he says something angry instead without meaning to, and then he gets excluded from class. And sometimes… sometimes when he looks at certain kids at school, he gets this weird boiling feeling in his tummy. Always boys. He doesn’t know what it means, but he instinctively knows that he shouldn’t tell anyone.

The sky has darkened by the time Mickey finally drags himself up to walk home. Terry has probably drunk himself into a stupor by now, which means it will be safe. Jamie might even have ordered pizza.

As he’s passing the spot where he ran into the red-haired boy, he sees something on the floor shining in the last rays of sunlight disappearing beneath the horizon. He frowns, going over to it; it’s very small. He picks it up.

It’s a little gold circle; Mickey thinks vaguely that it might be an earring. Not for a girl, though. This is a boy’s earring. He’s seen older kids wearing them at the tops of their ears before, standing around the swings in the park smoking and drinking cans of cider. This must belong to one of them.

He likes the earring. He can’t wear it himself, because he doesn’t have any holes in his ears to put it in, but he clenches his fist around it. Those kids in the park always look so tough, like they aren’t afraid of anything. That’s what Mickey’s going to be. He’s already figured out that it’s best not to feel worried. If he could stop himself being afraid, then everything would be even better.

When he lets himself into the house, he finds it quiet, Terry nowhere to be seen. Only Mandy is in the living room, eating a peanut butter sandwich and watching cartoons on TV. She waves at him, but he ignores her, going straight to his room.

His mother’s treasure box is still hidden underneath his bed, although he’s taken the precaution of putting it inside a dark green plastic bag and then covering that with an old blanket to make sure that no one even guesses it might be there. After pushing a chair underneath his door handle – it won’t really stop anyone from coming in, but it will at least give him enough warning to hide the box again before they do – he carefully takes out the box, unlocking it almost reverently.

He hasn’t added much to it over the past year. The picture of Irina and Terry is still there; as far as he knows, no one is even aware that it’s missing from the photo album, even after all this time. No one bothers looking at photographs any more. The box contains two other items: a black biro pen, which is the first thing Mickey ever shoplifted and of which he is obscurely proud, and a math test. He got every single question right, and the teacher put a gold star on it. He knows it’s stupid, which is why he’s hiding it from his family, but sometimes when he looks at that star it makes his chest feel wobbly, in a good way.

Mickey opens his hand, revealing the little gold hoop. Another little treasure, to remind him to be strong and not afraid of anything. The ghost of a smile on his face, he tips it into Irina’s music box. He hasn’t played the song once since she died. He tells himself that it’s because Terry might hear and take the box away – which is true – but really he knows that there’s another reason.

Hearing that song will make him think about his mother too much. And the biggest feeling Mickey has pushed away all year is how much he misses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand three hundred years later I finally updated! My bad :/ Trying very hard to do better this time! I hope this chapter is okay - writing children makes me nervous, because it's hard to keep in their voices. Comments and concric always welcome!


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